My Name is Glazer…by Marilynette Cox (Part 3)

The Mount Dora Citizen is pleased to offer the story of the life journey shared between Glazer, the Boxer, and her family – as told by Glazer.


Why do most people assume that a Boxer is male?  I am pretty (except for my nose), petite, and feminine in my demeanor.  I can flirt with the best of them.  Even one of my own vets who had seen me for years, would occasionally say, “Well, I’m not quite sure what’s the matter with him.”  That would just frost my ass (and my mom’s too).  But, he was the one that most certainly did not know what to do about my nose.

My Nose

Rule number one:  Don’t Touch It.  Rule number two:  Don’t talk about It.  Rule number three:  It Doesn’t Bother Me and No, It Doesn’t Hurt.

Some uncouth people, if they don’t offend me right off by asking “what’s his name,” will ultimately offend me by saying, “what’s wrong with his/her nose?”  I have this condition, and I don’t know what it’s called, nor do I care, that the skin on my nose does not slough off like most dogs.  So, my nose is a little, I suppose craggy would be a good description.  I’m sure it looks extremely dry and cracked, like those commercials for humans with really bad heels.  But, I can tell you this, it works just fine.  Just don’t touch it, don’t mess with it, don’t put anything on it, and for God’s sake don’t do what that vet suggested.  I am not making this up; he wanted my mom to try to file it down with an emery board.  I don’t know who looked more incredulous, me or mom.

I can assure you that is the only mar on an otherwise perfect specimen of a female Boxer.  You know the old saying, “that’s no skin off my nose,” well I guess I took that a little too literally.


I think I have a wonderfully awesome nose.
I think I have a wonderfully awesome nose.


There were a whole passel of cats living at the house on the hill when I first came.  There was a big ugly white cat named Bandit that was afraid of every single thing on this planet.  No one knew if Bandit was a he or a she – who would know, you couldn’t get within a hundred yards of that cat.   Personally, I always thought Bandit was a girl; she just had that lost-afraid girl look about her, even though she was big and ugly.

Dad had this cat he’d had forever named “Dog”.  Can you believe that?  Dad is real big on naming animals to fit their personality (as we have already discussed), and I admit, Doggie would follow a person around like a dog, would come when told to, and would stay when told to.  Back before we had the person-dog chair, dad had this old beat up recliner.  God, he loves that chair, even though it has been banished to his office.  Well, he would be sitting in that chair and Dog would come up and he would put Dog beside him and say “You stay right there.” And damned if that cat wouldn’t stay just right where he put him, for hours even.  I’m telling you, Dog had me beat in that obedience thing, especially before I went to kindergarten (and probably after that too, if you want to know the truth).

Then there was Macaroon.  That was one mean cat.  She probably didn’t start off that way, but I always heard stories of “para-training” off the upper deck.  Dad was never mean to animals, but I guess one time he did want to see if it was true the story about cats always landing on their feet.  I’m not sure that it really happened, or if it’s just another of dad’s stories that he tells.  Anyway, ole Macaroon was fast and mean and could climb straight up the side of the house.  I’d be chasing her around the yard and driveway and then, bam; she’d go right up the side of the house and just stare at me and twitch that damned tail.  Used to make me so mad, but at first it just always made me really amazed.


Me and my ‘favorite’ cat, Macaroon.
Me and my ‘favorite’ cat, Macaroon.


You believe that just because you forget your keys and come back in within 30 seconds and we’re glad to see you that we don’t know how long you’re gone?  That’s just show.  It’s this whole guilt thing and a con for another cookie.

Sara’s Goblins

Sometimes I think that maybe Sara isn’t wrapped too tight, or the elevator doesn’t quite go to the top floor.  There are places in all the houses we’ve ever lived that have goblins, spooks, ghosts, whatever.  We’ll be walking along, you know like leaving the bedroom and walking down the hallway, and all of a sudden she stops, drops into a crouch, and just hunkers down.  I just go around her because I know this will take a while.  Mom or dad finally realize she’s stopped so there ensues, “come on Sara, you can do it, you can do it.”  And Sara’s just wagging her tail, but believe me, she’s still stopped because there’s something there and even if we can’t see it, she can.  Eventually she’ll get past it, usually by just screwing up her courage, and peeling out, and then it’s “whew, I’m around it!”   And, this is followed by lots of congratulations on being a brave, smart girl.  I’m telling you, she’s not right – but we all love her anyway.

Sara also gets stuck at the bottom of stairs.  Not all the time, mind you, just sometimes.  When it’s the kind that don’t have a back on them and you can look through them – well, if she makes the mistake of looking through the first one, then she just can’t make it.  At home it’s not too bad because there’s another set of stairs you can’t see through, but we had a miserable experience in Pensacola once.  Mom had driven all day and its night time and its dark out and we’re hungry and sick of being in that truck and mom finds a motel and we check in.  This was always a circus at the motels when we finally get to get out and we have to drag all our crap to the room.  Why don’t we just take The Red Can and forget all the rest of this junk?  So, we get out, get our stuff, and look for the room which turns out to be on the second floor at the top of OPEN STAIRS.  Sara’s not really paying attention, and me, mom and grandmommie are all hoping that she just doesn’t look and goes right on up.  No such luck, she looks, she’s stuck, and there’s no amount of encouraging, cajoling, cookie offering, or anything that’s going to get her up those stairs.  Back we go, pile all our stuff in the car, and check out.  Mom said the lady at the motel couldn’t believe we had to check out because Sara couldn’t go up the stairs.  Mom said you could tell she didn’t have dogs.

Me, acting goofy – Sara, serious as always.
Me, acting goofy – Sara, serious as always.

Next week…Glazer’s story continues, beginning  with “On the Road”

Marilynette Cox, Guest Writer